So, where are we?

[truepenny]

I have sourdough-oatmeal bread rising. I'm a little suspicious of it, frankly, because it's brown and sticky (half a cup of molasses and you'd be sticky, too, the dough says sulkily from the kitchen), but about all I can do now is wait and see what happens.

It's very exciting, in an incredibly boring domesticated sort of way.

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Lobbed two turnips out yesterday afternoon. I'm really tired of trying to sell these two stories, but it's also not like I have anything better to do.

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::waves to everybody going to Worldcon:: Have fun, y'all!

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I am still dithering about the books, mostly because I can't figure out what I want where. Does the poetry belong in the dining room or the guest bedroom? Should I put history in the living room or the office? I've never had this many options before, and I think it's deadlocking my brain.

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Kekropia is sitting and staring at me balefully.

I was about to embark on an elaborate metaphor to try to explain this feeling, when I realized I don't need to. All I need to do is tell you about a friend's African bullfrog, which is enormous, carnivorous, has teeth, and spends most of its time pretending to be inanimate in the hopes of lulling prey close enough to be devoured. It eats mice.

I shall leave the working out of the analogy as an exercise for the student.

Comments

[larryhammer]

If you're waiting for the manuscript to wander close enough to you to devour it, you might have a long time to wait.

I prefer poetry in the living room, he said irrelevantly.

---L.